


pink lemonade (and a hand grenade)

by heyabyoutkast



Category: SPY x FAMILY (Manga)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, wow i love this family too much haha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 07:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21442414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyabyoutkast/pseuds/heyabyoutkast
Summary: Keeping up with the Forgers.(aka. a drabble collection following our favourite fake-but-not-really family)
Relationships: Anya Forger & Loid Forger | Twilight, Anya Forger & Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess, Loid Forger | Twilight/Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess
Comments: 100
Kudos: 416





	1. Breakfast

Twilight wakes up at 5:30 am, everyday without fail. 

After doing so, he’d wash his face, cook and eat, and then perhaps read the briefing for a mission he’s been assigned.

It is merely habit built on precaution;

As a principle, the longer an individual is asleep, the more vulnerable they are to attacks. 

Admittedly there is more to his morning routine now that he is a married, father of one. For starters, he has to cook breakfast for two other people. A nutritious, high protein breakfast that matches Anya’s selective palate of omelettes and _ absolutely no carrots Papa _! This was imperative to the mission’s success, of course. The morning can set the tone for the entire day after all, and simply ensuring Anya enjoys her breakfast increases her happiness which in turn increases the likelihood of her being compliant and making friends with Donovan’s kid. Yes, it is merely logical to make the best, fluffiest omelettes every morning.

There is sort of calming regularity in the break of day. As the sun rises, it would rouse the sleepy town from its peaceful slumber, bringing with it a medley of sounds that undercut the hushed stillness of the apartment. It is such that Twilight has come to know the way the townhouse plumbing would creak as its inhabitants got ready for work, the way the roads would slowly rumble awake with the mechanical chuffing of trucks and cars and even the way Mrs Gunther from next door would farewell her husband before he made his way to his job at the state-owned broadcasting station. 

But it’s all ordinary and Twilight does not think much of it. 

It’s 7:00 am when he finally folds the newspaper and tosses it on the coffee table. This too is a part of his morning routine. Getting acquainted with the current affairs of Ostania is a prerequisite to being a spy for Westalia, so he makes it his mission to read the Berlint Post every morning - propaganda and all. 

He walks leisurely towards the kitchen from his spot in the lounge room and sets out a large glass bowl on the counter. Then he reaches for the whisk and the carton of eggs - 

“Huh?”

Twilight gently shifts the box up and down, then up again, carefully measuring its resistance against each movement. ‘_ Something’s not right.’ _

He lifts the carton’s lid and sighs.

As if mocking the spy, a lonely, beige-shelled egg greets Twilight’s tired irises. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and with a barely audible huff, he heedlessly places the carton back on the counter, almost throwing it. At this point, it really didn’t matter if the egg cracked - but he still checks if it did. It didn’t. 

Again, he had been careless. He contemplates the previous afternoon’s activities which had somehow prevented him from buying eggs, or at least prevented him from asking Yor to get them for him. ‘_ Wait no, I’m not making that mistake again’, _ he chides himself internally, _ ‘well, it doesn’t matter now.’ _

With a hand resting rather tightly on his left hip, Twilight scans the egg-less but otherwise well-stocked pantry. He supposes that he _ could _ just feed Anya a handful of peanuts, which would fulfill the criteria of taste and protein the same as an omelette would, but he confesses that he isn’t too fond of being seen as a negligent parent. 

Twilight catches himself staring at the top left corner of the pantry. There, Yor’s baking paraphernalia is tucked snugly behind half empty bags of flour and sugar. He can vividly picture Anya balancing ecstatically on a dining chair as she flails a wooden spoon around - which she calls ‘mixing’ - as a panicked Yor tries to keep the bowl and child from falling. The result of that eventful Saturday afternoon was a Victoria sponge, if it could even be called that. When it had been brought out of the oven, it resembled a cheetah’s coat but much less opulent and more crunchy-looking. Apart from the charred top however, it didn’t taste all that bad, if Twilight had to be honest. Although, he did eat more than he intended in order to stop Anya from crying. 

An idea creeps into Twilight’s mind but he is quick to shake it off.

‘_ I really shouldn’t,’ _ he tries to focus his attention on some dusty can of tomato paste, ‘ _ but…’ _

  
  


*

“Wow! That smells good Loid!”

Yor’s head somehow pops over his shoulder without him realising. He still doesn’t know how she keeps doing that, but it’s just as startling as the first time.

“Thanks. Thought I’d change it up a bit,” he says half-truthfully, “you know, introduce some variety.”

Yor leaves the scent of her strawberry shampoo behind as she takes a step to the side, humming. She’s happy, Twilight notes.

“I see, you’re trying to improve Anya’s ‘unbalanced diet’.” She muses. 

Twilight maintains his position in front of the stove, only observing Yor in his periphery. _ ‘Well, you’re not wrong,’ _he thinks to himself as he watches her drying and stacking last night’s plates beside him.

A comfortable silence settles between them, only punctuated by the careful clattering of china and the sizzling of the frypan. It’s already been a month since they had formed the agreement to become each other’s fake spouse, and perhaps it’s their mutual need for concealment or just some sort of understanding of the other’s disposition - or at least Yor’s understanding of ‘Loid’ - but there does not seem to be a need to explain themselves to one another. And for that, Twilight feels grateful, it would just be a hassle if this weren’t the case.

Yor brings a set of plates to the empty bench space next to the stove. This time, Loid notices her moving towards him before she can startle him again.

“I saw you looking at them, so I thought you needed them already.”

She’s smiling brightly as usual. It’s a little disarming. 

“Uh, sure, thanks.” He mumbles, making sure his eyes are concentrated on his cooking. If there’s an implication in her words, he ignores it.

* 

Before long, he hears the telltale patter of Anya’s footsteps.

“Mmm-morning... Papa, Mama.” The little girl greets with sleep still in her voice.

“Good morning Anya.” Twilight replies contentedly.

Anya drags herself to the dining table, rubbing her eyes awake. Twilight watches her clamber into her seat in her pink nightgown. ‘_ She should be in her school uniform already’, _ Twilight tuts to himself, but he supposes that he can overlook her sleep-induced mistake, recalling her tales of yesterday’s wild physical education adventures which she told Yor and himself with all the theatrics of a circus master. And besides, it wasn’t like he was free from error himself.

As Yor takes her place next to Anya, Twilight observes the child’s reaction to the stimulus in front of her. Anya’s face distorts.

“Papa, this isn’t eggs.” Anya says as if she had just been betrayed. Twilight almost flinches. _ Almost. _

“No they’re not, Anya.” He smiles, picking up his knife and fork.

“These are called pancakes,” Yor chimes in, “you eat them like this.”

Twilight watches Yor place a pat of butter on Anya’s modest stack of two, followed by a generous drizzling of syrup. Twilight wants to wince at the unhealthy helping of liquid sugar, or just the clear imbalance of macronutrients in general, but stops himself from doing so. Looking at it now, he wonders what impelled him to cook pancakes in the first place.

He takes a bite of his own creation.

_ ‘But at least it doesn’t taste bad.’ _

“Woah… that’s so cool.” 

Twilight lifts his eyes towards Anya in front of him, whose mouth risks swallowing her entire face with how agape it is. Apprehensively, Twilight watches Anya snatch her cutlery from the surface of the table and with all the grace of a six year old, she stabs her stack of pancakes and shoves the topmost disc in her mouth.

“A-Anya!” Yor scolds.

Twilight feels a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. Anya finally chews.

Then chews some more.

Then swallows.

Anya stares straight at Twilight with sleep-crusted eyes, and he feels himself faltering on the inside. He thinks he hears Yor chuckling but he’s not quite sure.

“Well?” He finally manages to say.

But instead of a reply, Anya stabs her fork into the pancakes once more, and like a filter feeder, inhales the rest of the meal.

*

Yor notices the increase in pancakes for breakfast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed this little thing :D
> 
> Honestly, this came out of nowhere (actually it came from my bottomless love for this trio). Spy x Family deserves more content on ao3, pls. I intend to add to this every once in a while, and I'm looking forward to writing for Loid/Yor in the future, but expect updates to be sporadic at best cuz i succ. 
> 
> Thanks for reading ;)


	2. Rouge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know how this fic is tagged as fluff? Yeah, well it's currently suffering from an identity crisis. Sorry in advance.

Looking at the mirror, Yor is reminded of her first outing to the art gallery with Loid and Anya. Namely, their short tour of the rather sparsely decorated modern art exhibit, because right now, Yor is convinced that her mirror is displaying a terrible rendition of one of those abstract paintings. 

Yor can only sigh at this.

Her lips have become a garish, rouge trapezium, augmented by the overly-powdered paleness of her skin, as a cheap coral blush, bought from the drugstore on her walk home from work last night rampages her cheeks like a gash on the knee . And her eyes -- _ her eyes. _

“It’s hopeless…” Yor mutters, bowing her head in defeat.

To think she could hastily paint on the same feminine sensibility that her coworkers exude so naturally, Yor feels a crippling embarrassment that makes her want to curl underneath her duvet and hide for the century to come. ‘_ Of course, who am I kidding,’ _Yor thinks bitterly as she reaches towards her dwindling pile of cotton pads and bottle of facial oil.

As she begins to wipe her face, starting at the eyelids, Yor entertains the thought of suddenly turning down Camilla’s invitation to go to the cinema, an hour before she and her other coworkers are meant to meet. Yor isn’t ignorant to the fact that Camilla is a less than pleasant person, but beyond the pretence of maintaining good relations… 

She was excited to go.

Yor couldn’t deny her excitement when Camilla had invited her to watch the latest film, starring -- in the catty blonde’s own words -- “the most dapper man alive”. Although in typical Camilla fashion, this proposal had been less of a suggestion but more an instruction which bordered the realm of threatening. Still, in all her twenty-seven years alive, Yor had never gone to a so called ‘girls’ night out’ (or invited to one for that matter) and the only instance she's been to see a film was with Yuri as a reward for topping his class for the sixth year in a row. It's a prospect that's exciting as it is frightening.

In front of her, Yor sees her reflection transform into something a little more familiar. In all honesty, she didn’t need all the pomp of a made face and to simply go as is would certainly be less work -- yet deep within the taciturn heart that she has slowly built through years of deception, exists an inexplicable desire. One which Yor aches to satisfy, but denies herself the pleasure, time and time again.

Dutily wiping the remnants of a failed undertaking, Yor’s blotched lips press into a telling straight line.

“Going out with friends, putting on makeup like a silly little girl,” she’s biting her lower lip now, “they’re not for me.”

_ Knock! Knock! _

“Yor?” A calm, resonant voice filters in from the other side of the door. It’s a voice that she has come to know well.

She quickly grabs a damp face towel and tries to rub the remaining makeup from her face.

“What is it?” Yor replies, rubbing harder. _ ‘Damn that lipstick.’ _

“Are you okay in there?” 

There is a pause and for a second Yor feels panic in her fingertips.

“It’s just that you’ve been in there for a long time,” he continues, “and I need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh of course!”

Hurriedly reaching for the door knob, Yor’s eyes flick towards the mirror one last time. Everything is back to normal.

“I’m sorry Loid,” Yor says sheepishly as she pulls back the door, revealing Loid’s cross-armed form, “I didn’t mean to take that long.”

Yor looks up at him and notices the way Loid’s messy bangs hide the slight furrow of his brow. She looks there, purposefully avoiding the poorly hidden concern in his gaze.

“What time will you be meeting with your colleagues?” 

His question is unexpected. But on second thought, only natural Yor supposes.

“Well you see…” Yor clutches the navy chiffon of her dress. It was a pretty little thing that had caught her eye in a boutique on High Street not long ago. Prior to making the purchase, she had wistfully imagined the few occasions where she could indulge in donning the knee-length dress, adamantly telling herself that a _ hit _would not be one of said occasions. Now, she searches its deep oceans of fabric for an excuse for her pathetic attempt at womanhood.

“Mama," Anya's appears suddenly, "why are your lips so red?” 

Wide-eyed, Yor stares dumbly at the young girl crouched in the gap of her father’s stance. And as the inquisitive child returns her gaze with a strange intensity, Yor realises that she can not find a nice-enough sounding lie.

“Well I was trying some makeup.” Yor says as a nervous laugh escapes her instinctively.

Loid shifts slightly. His expression has softened, smiling kindly at Yor. It was a smile she usually associates with Loid when he has his hair gelled up -- it looks odd, like mismatched cutlery, but not terrible at all.

“I think you look fine without it.” He encourages.

“Thank you,” Yor replies clutching tighter at her dress until creases start to form, “but--”

_ ‘But that’s not what I wanted to hear.’ _

"But I thought it'd be nice to try it..." She doesn't mean to let the disappointment get to her voice.

Yor doesn’t notice the way Loid’s eyes widen, or how the edges of his mouth waver for a second.

“Then,” his voice is quieter this time, “would you like me to help you?”

Shocked, confused, _ elated? _Yor struggles to label what she feels, but it comes over her all at once, like a shock of lightning. Her lips curl upwards.

“I’d like that.”

  
  


*

  
  


By the dining table, Loid sits with his back to the open window and Yor opposite from him. He says that the natural light will help him see what he’s doing easily, although with only the sunset’s muted oranges and pinks filtering in, Yor questions this logic, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Close your eyes.” 

Yor follows Loids instruction. He had already applied foundation and powdered her face -- _ ‘maybe it’s eyeshadow now?’ _ But instead of her eyelids, she feels the lightest and warmest of sensations on her jaw. It glides slightly, and in its paradoxical rough smoothness, Yor recognises this sensation as the touch of Loid’s calloused fingers. She’s felt it only once before. It’s a touch that’s barely there yet compels a strange feeling from her, like the bald moon commanding the tides or a magnet pulling in a lone screw, and for the briefest of moments, Yor forgets how to breathe.

Suddenly, Yor feels a gentle brushing on her left eyelid and she feels relief wash over her; a respite from the overwhelming singularity of Loid’s touch. Yor hopes she isn’t flushed, though she knows that she most likely is. She’s always disliked that turning into a tomato was her body’s immediate response to anything remotely embarrassing. So she opens her mouth.

“How did you learn to do this, Loid?”

“I used to watch my first wife do her makeup all the time.” He replies without a beat. 

Yor hums in acknowledgement: ‘_ That makes sense.’ _Loid has always been observant after all.

The pleasant caress of the sun’s rays, the repetitive motions of the brush on her lids, the warmth of _ that _ and even the unintelligible droning of _ Spywars _ from the living room was like a calming spell, Yor admits to herself. _'If it were like this forever...'_

*

  
  


“All done!” 

Yor flutters her eyes open. They feel a little heavier than usual.

“Loid you forgot the lipstick.” She says pointing to the golden tube on the dining table.

“Oh,” he smiles, “I think you’d do a better job than me with that.”

Yor only laughs at that. In the last vestiges of her laughter, she accepts a hand mirror from Loid with a nod. She stands up.

Yor doesn’t know how she chokes on a single syllable, but she does. “Wow--”

She touches her face as she traces her reflection with her eyes. From the light dusting on her cheeks to the flare of her eyelashes, it all looks so _ different _, but so captivating if she says so herself. She can’t help but grin.

“Loid, you’re an artist!” 

“Not really.” He chuckles whilst packing away the sparse cosmetics. Yor laughs with him. _'This is nice,' _she thinks, but she straightens before she can continue her thought

“Oh! I’m running late!” Yor yelps, suddenly recalling the reason for all the commotion.

Yor quickly makes her way to the front door, grabbing her handbag from the end table along the way as Loid and Anya follow her. Yor hastily checks the contents of her bag -- _ ‘Wallet, check. Tissues, check. Keys, check.’ -- _then smooths down the creases of her dress.

“Ma looks pretty,” Anya says nonchalantly, “she’s always the prettiest.”

An odd, fuzzy feeling blooms in Yor’s chest. She reaches out to pat her daughter’s pink hair.

“Thank you, Anya.”

  
  
  


*

  
  


Loid slowly shuts the front door and sighs. Carelessly revealing his skills like that could land him in trouble one day.

As he turns around to finish cleaning up the mess on the dining table, he catches Anya’s gaze.

“What?” Loid asks impatiently.

Anya pauses, then turns her attention back to the T.V.

“I thought you needed to use the bathroom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked this.
> 
> I don't know how I feel about this chapter - it's a bit everywhere - but I really wanted to get an update out. Also waiting for sxf chapters every two weeks hurts my soul. I guess this is what they mean when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder lmao.


	3. Normal

The first time is fleeting. It happens but all too quickly and Yor thinks the universe is making a mockery of the damn thumping in her chest that refuses to grow less tumultuous with the passing of time.

When Loid’s lips leave her cheek — specifically, the firm part between her right ear and the outer corner of the eye — the frigid morning air dances on the skin there, just as it did a second ago. ‘_Or was it half a second,_’ Yor doesn’t know. The sound of blood pumping in her ears makes knowing anything very difficult, really.

“The neighbours were gossiping again,” Loid’s voice is barely a whisper, “sorry.”

Her jaw readies for a response but her throat betrays her and silence exits her wide-open mouth like a moth escaping a poor cartoon character’s wallet.

Yor doesn’t realise that she’s been staring at Loid’s neatly polished shoes until she hears him clear his throat with a quiet, but clearly artificial cough. She flicks her eyes towards his and follows his line of sight to the group of three middle-aged ladies standing by the front of the apartment complex. Probably prompted by Yor’s investigation, the women’s obtrusive gaze dart from the couple to amongst each other, not even bothering to hide their unbridled scrutiny.

“Oh.” Yor manages to say.

Loid securely fixes his hat on his head and it casts a small shadow over his face, accentuating the odd stillness of his features. Whilst the rapid beating of her heart only now decides to subside — if only a little — Yor can’t help but envy Loid’s composure. The way the ends of his mouth only lift politely while she is reduced to a befuddled bumbling mess with an overeactive cardiovascular system almost frustrates her.

“Well, it’s time for work.” Loid speaks up. There’s an enthusiastic lilt in his voice and Yor smiles meekly.

“It’s time to get going then!” She can look at Loid with some sort of conviction now.

The familiarity of this exchange which is repeated almost word for word five days a week, brings with it a calming ease that allays even the strangest sensations. Yes, it reminds her that the normalcy of disguise justifies every action between them and to think anything else is presumptuous. And so following Loid’s lead, Yor begins her walk to the city hall with only the last vestiges of the peck on the cheek hanging lightly in her heart. Such actions would fade into regularity anyway — a mere addition to their act.

*

It doesn’t get easier the second time. Like a well done experiment, the other variables are controlled. It happens just as before; outside, right after seeing off Anya to her school bus, the spot on her cheek, even the temperature outside is the same. The amount of time that Loid’s lips stay on her is also exactly the same — although Yor isn’t entirely sure since she wasn’t really paying attention the first time.

“Shall we go?” Loid asks with a courteous smile, the pads of his fingers lingering a little longer on her opposite cheek. Again, it’s his voice that must cut through all the swirling thoughts.

She nods slowly.

“Does it make you uncomfortable? We don’t have to do this.” He says quietly, concerned.

“No! No!” Yor waves her hands in front of her frantically.

Loid has a puzzled expression on his face. ‘_Well, that is to be expected_,’ Yor reasons. Her words certainly don’t match her dumbfounded reaction.

Yor feels a pang of guilt. Even though it’s her who needs this fake marriage the most, her effort to maintain appearances pale in comparison to Loid’s and sometimes she wonders whether Loid grows tired of it.

“Let me try.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me do it.” Yor says. It was supposed to be a clarification but she only realises afterwards that her statement clarifies her intention as well as a single colander clears a muddy pool.

Despite this, Loid seems to understand. He blinks once then refocuses his eyes on her.

“Well if you want to...“

His voice trails off as Yor cups his right cheek with her hand. Her thumb unceremoniously digs into his flesh as she tries to steady herself on the tip of her toes and she mouths a sorry. Yor knows she has a decent physicality — she’s strong enough and rather flexible, but good lord was trying to align her mouth with the side of his face was proving a challenge._ ‘He’s so tall,’_ Yor thinks, shutting her eyes with a particular force that she hopes would extinguish her embarrassment.

“Here let me help you —“

Loid’s skin was cold underneath the plush centre of her lips. Cold and soft and not as flat as she expected. Cold because it’s winter, soft because Loid religiously moisturises his skin every night and not flat because... 

Yor’s eyes widen as she pulls back in a panic. With her eyes strained on the spot where her lips just abandoned, her suspicions are unfortunately confirmed. She had missed the mark slightly and had planted a kiss on the corner of Loid’s mouth.

“Oh I’m so sorry, Loid!” Yor blurts, her hands covering her face in shame as she chides herself internally.

Forget convincing the gossiping housewives of the legitimacy of their union, there won’t be a marriage at all after that stunt. Loid would divorce her and she’d be hunted down by the SSS and then perhaps she’d have to add a secret service officer to the list of men she’s killed. Firstly though, she has to wait for Loid’s reply. And when Loid doesn’t reply she lifts her head to blurt out something again.

But the subtle pink that graces Loid’s cheeks and the unending pools of white which encircle his irises stops her in her tracks. He looks like a deer caught in headlights.

Yor watches as Loid tries to calm himself. He scratches the back of his neck, pulls his hat down tighter and fixes his tie, not once meeting Yor’s gaze. But he does eventually and his expression is more controlled this time — although a slight flicker of his eye communicates an inexplicable emotion.

“I uh,” he begins, “thanks for that.” He is more sure of himself when he ends.

“I-I um,” Yor doesn’t know what to say or where to look, so she looks at the topmost button of Loid’s suit. She didn’t anticipate that reaction. “I didn’t mean to—“

Loid coughs into his glove. When he returns his hand to his side he unveils a reassuring smile and Yor’s mind goes blank.

“Shall we get going?”

Still looking at Yor, he turns his back to her and motions to his side with his head. Yor mentally slaps herself and takes her position next to Loid, making sure to maintain a careful distance between him and herself. But instead of walking Loid stays still.

“You know, it’s a little odd for a wife to yell apologies after she kisses her husband.”

‘Oh,’ Loid has a point, ‘was I that loud?’

“So,” he continues, finally walking ahead of Yor, “we mustn’t let them get suspicious.”

Yor notices the loop that his right arm makes and with a step forward, she accepts his invitation by threading her arm into the hole.

“I think I can do this,” Yor speaks up. She’s contented as she indulges in the warmth radiating besides her, “though maybe kissing is a little beyond me still.”

Loid laughs and so does she. Making their way to the start of the working day, their laughter joins the many sounds of the city. Regularity might be a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!
> 
> It’s been almost a month since I last updated but I was determined to post something in time for Christmas. Truthfully I had another chapter (an Anya-centric chapter woooo!!!) planned and I had already written a good portion of it, but I realised a third of the way through that it’ll end up really long and I wouldn’t get it finished anytime soon. So I wrote this super indulgent (possibly ooc) fluff instead LOL. 
> 
> I hope you all have a great holiday season <3


	4. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the support in the previous chapters. love y'all <3

“Hell hath no fury like a penguin with a gun!”

Anya shuts her left eye and directs Mr Penguin’s fuzzy black arm towards the double-crossing traitor.  _ Perfect aim. _

“BANG!”

In an exaggeration motion, Mama clutches her chest and collapses like a ragdoll. Anya blows Mr Penguin’s imaginary smoking gun. Another kill, another perfect mission for this hardboiled spy.

“H-help…” Mama groans into the floor.

Anya snickers. She watches as Mama dramatically grabs the carpet beneath her before she sticks out her own hand to help her get up.

“Mama, you make a good dying person.”

Mama laughs.

“Maybe I’ll become an actress then!” She says, gently accepting Anya’s proffered hand,  _ ‘I suppose it just comes naturally after seeing it happen so much,’  _ she thinks.

“Woah…”

Mama smiles. “Well, it might be too late for a career change though...” she pauses wistfully and Anya decides that even as an esper, Mama thinks too loud. 

Anya squeezes Mama’s hand as if to tell her ‘it’s okay’ then dashes towards the kitchen with Mr Penguin and clambers onto a dining room chair. She presses her left cheek against the cold window and stares. The rainl is still pelting at the window like a barrage of machine gun bullets. Anya sighs and her dragon breath fogs up the window.

“Operation raid the playground is postponed.” Anya tries to say in her best spy voice. But Anya finds out that being spy-like is really difficult when you’re disappointed.

A slender finger suddenly disturbs her dull grey view of racing raindrops and she watches as the fingertip glides on the window. It sort of reminds her of those people who were dancing on the ice rink when she walked past the park with Papa the other day. They were wearing cool knife shoes. Of course Anya begged him to let her try and of course he said no. One day she’ll go try it, she tells herself, even if it means sneaking out of the house.

“There!” Mama chirps as she pulls her finger away from the window.

Anya peers at the spot where her fog used to be. There’s a little smiley face and an even tinier love heart.  _ ‘You can do window drawings with just your finger? Wow!’ _

Hurriedly, Anya gulps a load of air, then using all the power she can muster, blows it all out. But she quickly notices just how  _ wispy  _ her patch of fog is. It was nothing like before. Mama laughs.

“You got to  _ breathe  _ the air out for it to work. Watch:” Mama leans close to the window and the glass in front of her immediately turns into a nice drawing canvas, “see?”

Anya lets out an amused ‘oooh’. She feels determination bubbling inside her stomach.

“I’m gonna make a big --” she stretches her arms out as wide as she can, “--window drawing of a doggy. And then when Papa’s walking home, he can see it from outside!” 

She feels Mama’s hand rest on her shoulder.

“Those drawings don’t last very long, but you can try!”

And with that Anya commenced her masterpiece. ‘ _ It might even be better than those paintings in the art gallery,’ _ Anya muses.

Even as the tip of her index finger turns cold and wet, Anya proceeds with her jaw clenched, taking special care to carve the mountains and valleys of the doggy’s spiky fur with spy-like concentration. Maybe her picture will help Papa decide what sorta dog to get. She’s sure it’ll be quite inspiring.

The large furry body takes the most time, but when she finally connects the fuzzy leg with the round of the last paw, she feels pride swell inside of her. It was finally done. Her masterpiece has been completed. 

Excitedly, Anya takes a step down from the chair to get a better look of the finished product. But when she looks up, the top half of the dog has already disappeared. She stays still, watching as the rest of her window drawing fades away. The spiky body is next to go, then the fuzzy legs and lastly the tiny paws. 

The sad rain swallows up the entire window yet again.

“It’s all gone.” Anya whispers. 

She stares at the endlessly grey window a little longer, observing how the rain grows stronger. It’s crazy. She can even feel the rain in her eyes!

“It was a beautiful picture, Anya.” Mama says as she grabs Anya’s cold hands. She’s kneeling to match Anya’s height. Anya smiles a little when she realises that Mama isn’t lying.

“Too bad Loid won’t see it,” Mama continues, rubbing circles on the back of Anya’s hand with her thumb, “but we can always do something better, right?”

_ ‘That’s right. I can do cooler things.’ _

“Want me to get some paper?” Mama asks, getting up.

“Yeah,” Anya chokes. She wipes the corners of her eyes, “and some scissors and tape too.” 

“Yes, boss!”

Anya follows Mama into the living room, where her arts and craft gadgets were already laying from her paper-plane session right after school. She doesn’t let go of Mama’s warm hands as they make this short trip.

“Loid must be glad that he brought an umbrella this morning!” 

_ ‘It’s snot an umbrella, Mama,’  _ Anya giggles,  _ ‘it’s a rifle.’  _

  
  


*****

  
  


To say that he’s pissed off would be an understatement. Twilight is tired, drenched, and his muscles  _ ached like hell. _ After a full day of espionage the last thing he wants is to be battered by the elements. But here he was. If it wasn’t for the thundering rain, Twilight thinks he’d be able to hear the disgusting squelching of his wet socks.

The  _ umbrella  _ was pretty useless too. When rain is literally blowing sideways, it doesn’t matter if you have a state-of-the-art hidden firearm, it’s still only going to protect him the same as any other piece of plastic. But any shelter is good shelter, he supposes.

At least he’s getting closer to the apartment now. When he gets there, Anya would be asleep, and -- Twilight glances at his watch -- probably even Yor. It’ll be peaceful. He’ll take a warm bath then hit the sack. He can worry about eating tomorrow.

But as the apartment comes into view Twilight notices something odd. 

“Why is the light still on?” He asks under his breath.

He approaches the front of the apartment building with caution. It’s midnight, and he knows that Yor isn’t careless enough to leave the kitchen light on just to waste electricity. Admittedly, he’d probably be more guilty of doing something like that than she is. 

Twilight stands by the curb, opposite the lit up window trying to see if anything is wrong. He grips his umbrella tighter in anticipation.  _ ‘If anything happened to them…’  _ Twilight shakes his head. He doesn’t want to continue that thought

“Huh?”

He strains his eyes, trying to ignore the droplets of rain caught in his eyelashes. There’s a silhouette in the yellow light; stuck on the window is a message of some sort. The wonky capital letters are arranged backwards but it’s nothing a spy like him can’t decipher. Twilight rubs his eyes.  _ ‘Let’s see. It says…’ _

  
  


WELCOME HOME PAPA

Ah.

What is a little rain anyway?

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not the anya chapter i planned but it's the one i wanted to write. this is definitely inspired by the many rainy days of my childhood. probably why i had so much fun writing this. hope you guys enjoy!!


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